The Reluctant Reaper

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1.

SUPPLIES ATTACK

Chapter 2.

NOW IS THE WINTER OF OUR DISCOTHEQUE

Chapter 3.

THE EAVESDROP OF DESTRUCTION

Chapter 4.

HANDBASKET OPTIONAL

Chapter 5.

TO GNOME ME IS TO LOVE ME

Chapter 6.

DON’T PAY THE FAIRY-MAN

Chapter 7.

PUTTING THE QUEUE IN CUTE

Chapter 8.

AFTERLIFE FORMS

Chapter 9.

TOPICAL DEPRESSION

Chapter 10.

PROPHET ABILITY STATEMENT

Chapter 11.

UNWANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE

Chapter 12.

ELECTROCITY

Chapter 13.

PRIDE AND PREDATOR

Chapter 14.

DEAD-SIDE MANNER

Chapter 15.

THE MOURNING AFTER

Chapter 16.

LIVE WRONG AND PROSPER

Chapter 17.

BETTER LAID THAN NEVER

Chapter 18.

GET AN AFTERLIFE

Chapter 19.

THE INJUSTICE DEPARTMENT

Acknowledgments

Sneak Peek of Book 2 in The Reluctant Reaper series: Scythe Does Matter

Connect with the Author

Chapter 1

SUPPLIES ATTACK

THE MORNING OF my twenty-fifth birthday, I dragged myself into the office feeling hungover and half dead. If I’d known I’d be a lot more dead by the end of the day, I probably would have called in sick.

Or at least slept in.

I downed a bunch of aspirin, vowing to either give up drinking or get a lot more practice.

After the aspirin kicked in and I drank a half dozen cups of coffee, I felt nearly human again and was actually making headway on a new business proposal. A sudden hissing distracted me and a horrible stench like rotten eggs wafted into the room.

Goddamn plumbing.

I reached for my phone to call Building Maintenance and give ’em hell when a flash of movement caught my eye.

Right there on my desk, my stapler suddenly opened at the hinges, snarling and hissing like an angry but narrow jungle cat. I froze as it reared up and roared, flaring its metal flanges at me.

Then my office door slammed shut, the lock’s steel tongue snicking into place. Sweat slithered an icy trail down my back.

To hell with fight or flight, I went for option three: freeze.

I couldn’t move. It was as if I were crazy-glued to the chair, the key word here being crazy!

The stapler drew back its steel lips and hissed again, its body a knot of metal muscle tensed to spring. A staple clicked into place, the two chisel-edged prongs glinting in the fluorescent light. Blindingly fast, the stapler leapt forward and slashed twin lines across the back of my hand, embedding a staple in my flesh.

Pain changed terror into fury. I backhanded the stapler into the wall before it could strike a second time. The stapler rebounded, leaving a dent in the drywall, and fell, lifeless, to the coffee-stained carpet.

Leaping up, I threw myself against the far wall, grateful for the support as my knees wobbled. I peered around my office, wary of other threats from seemingly harmless office supplies. The pencil might put my eye out; the eraser could choke me to death. Even my calculator could no longer be counted on.

But the stapler lay on the floor, jaws gaping, once again nothing more than a device for fastening papers together.

Had I hallucinated the whole thing?

No. I had a bloody staple lodged in my skin. A staple that had raked scratches two inches long across the back of my hand. On one hand, they weren’t that deep, but on the other—well, no, on the same hand actually—they hurt like a bitch.

Blood bubbled up when I poked at it. Ow!

Before I could scream, faint, or bleed on the carpet, my door shot open and Conrad, my boss, strode in without knocking.

Kirsty, do you have the file for the—holy crap, what happened? Conrad rushed to my side. Are you okay?

I . . . The . . . What could I say? I’d been attacked by rogue office supplies? I sagged against the wall, trying to watch everything in the room at once.

I clutched my injured hand, holding it close, but not close enough that I’d get blood on my new jacket. My stapler bit me? I held up my hand. A thin trail of blood oozed toward my wrist.

Conrad reached out as if to touch my hand, stopping halfway. You’re bleeding! He inspected my hand, eyebrows drawing together. Is it bad?

Just a flesh wound. I narrowed my eyes at him. If I suddenly couldn’t trust inanimate objects, no way was I going to trust people.

Then I laughed at my paranoia. I’d known Conrad for years—he was my best friend Shannon’s dad and he’d taken a chance on a kid right out of high school by mentoring me into my first junior management job. Of course I trusted him.

No, the only person I couldn’t trust was me. Obviously I was cracking up. A few notes of hysterical laughter made a break for it.

Conrad stared at me, looking as pale and nervous as I felt. Come. You’re shaking. Sit down.

Taking tiny steps, I allowed him to guide me back to my seat and, when I resisted, to gently push me down.

My hand leaked slow droplets of blood.

Conrad yelled out my office door, Shannon, get the first aid kit, please. Kirsty’s cut herself.

Yes, of course that’s what happened. Staplers don’t bite. I’d been so dozy from last night’s birthday bash and preoccupied with the new business proposal that I hadn’t even noticed I’d stapled my own hand.

Conrad dropped the thin sheaf of papers he’d arrived with on my desk and pulled my arm toward him, quickly yanking out the staple. I clamped down on my whimper—mostly.

Got it. He presented the staple on the palm of one hand, gripping my forearm tightly with the other. Did I hurt you?

I directed a weak smile at him. Uh, no, I lied. I’ve had manicures that hurt more than that. Well, maybe not manicures, but once I’d had this bikini wax . . . I certainly wasn’t going to tell my boss that story.

I tugged my hand away. Don’t want to get blood on your papers, I said, glancing at the documents. They were printed on expensive-looking parchment. Must be some new campaign we were working on.

Don’t worry about these documents. You’re much more important. He gave me a warm, fatherly smile and grabbed my injured hand a second time, pulling it back toward him. Let me see that again. He held it directly over the parchment.

"Ow! You’re hurting me!" I cried as he squeezed a few drops right on the signature line. When I tried to pull away, he held firm.

Hold still, Kirsty. We need to make sure there’s no dirt in the wound. You could get blood poisoning.

When had Conrad gone over to the doc side? Not recognizing his medical authority, I jerked my hand from his grasp.

Dizzy from the morning’s weirdness, I reached out to steady myself, but my hand completely missed the edge of the desk. Instead I caught the rim of my half-empty coffee cup, yanking it toward me. Oh, no! I cried, as a tsunami of cold coffee swept over Conrad’s documents, washing away the drops of blood.

Goddamnit! Conrad picked up the soaked papers, gripping them by the only dry corner.

Shannon arrived with the first aid kit just in time to shove my laptop away from the spreading pool. Then she dashed from the room.

Conrad glared at his ruined contracts. Damn it to Hell! I paid a fortune for that spell!

This fury at an easily replaced document wasn’t at all like him. He was always calm, cool, in control. For a second I felt like a small child again, just orphaned, being blasted by my grandfather for some tiny infraction. I barely stopped the reflex to cover my head and face against the anticipated blows.

But you said not to worry about . . .

I watched as he took several deep breaths, finally gusting out a sigh and slowly relaxing. Never mind, he said, patting my arm. No problem. We’ll just print new ones. Returning his attention to the sodden documents, he mumbled, I’ll just have to find some other way. Time’s running out.

Conrad must be on a deadline; no wonder he seemed so edgy. Then something he’d said flitted back into my brain.

What did you mean you paid a fortune for that spell?

Oh, um. The little muscles beside his mouth tightened, and his eyes darkened. "I meant spell-checker." He nodded once. That’s right. I paid a fortune for that add-on public relations module to our new contract management software, and I’ve just noticed a typo in these contracts. His lips drew back in a smile, but his eyes remained stormy. So they’d have to be reprinted anyway. No need to worry.

Shannon returned with a towering stack of paper towels and began cleaning up the spilled coffee.

I took a closer look at the contracts in Conrad’s hands. Something about them didn’t look right, and not just that they weren’t printed on the usual white bond paper. Hey! That was my signature at the bottom, peeking out from under the brown stain. But I hadn’t signed them. I would have remembered signing parchment contracts.

Which account are those for? I jerked the sheets from his fingers with my good hand.

Conrad snatched them back, but not before I’d absorbed the first couple of lines. It read Contract Amendment, followed by a ridiculously long number. After that, it began, I, Kirsty d’Arc . . . I hadn’t managed to read further, but anything beginning with I, Kirsty d’Arc . . . that someone didn’t want me to see pinged my paranoia radar.

Still, Conrad was like a father to me.

He turned to address the gaggle of coworkers who’d gathered in my office doorway. Never mind, it’s just a flesh wound. Nothing to see here. He walked toward them, arms wide, coffee dripping from the contracts and adding to years of brown speckles on the carpet.

Thank God Shannon stayed. I so didn’t want to be alone with my office supplies right now. She wrapped miles of medical mesh over, under, and around my hands until I felt I was in bandage bondage and she was the wizard of gauze.

My brain whirled and suddenly I was glad to be sitting. What account were those contracts for? I asked Shannon. She worked as special projects manager during her summers home from university, so she’d probably know.

It’s for some, like, new business pitch Dad’s working on. Very need-to-know. She tried to appear arch and knowing, but her one-shoulder shrug suggested otherwise. I waited. No idea, she admitted. And I don’t really care.

But I did. I wasn’t returning to school in a few days. And it wasn’t her name on the signature line of that contract. My hand hurt, and my new tattoo, which I got last night as a birthday present to myself, burned hot and raw. I’d just experienced some kind of crazy hallucination, and now I learned I was somehow involved with a big new campaign that I knew nothing about.

Shannon, wasn’t that my name on the contract?

Dunno. Why would it be? Shannon swept the sopping mass of paper towel off my desk and into my wastebasket. She patted my shoulder and leaned in close, lowering her voice. Happy twenty-fifth. You’re still coming to our joint party tonight at Sam and Ella’s pub right? She bit her lip, looking very young.

Shannon was six months older than me—we’d met on the first day of high school—but coming from a rich family and spending the last few years at the University of Toronto had kept her younger in spirit than me.

I’d had a tougher time, losing my parents and being raised by my aunt and her partner. I’d gone to work right after high school, and had my own apartment. Shannon still believed socks washed themselves. But our differences only brought us closer. The fact that she’d also lost her mom very young helped cement that bond. At least she’d had her father while she was growing up.

I considered Shannon’s question. Should I go to our party? I still wasn’t sure how I felt after the stapler attack, whether it was an hallucination or real. I could go either way on the supernatural versus insanity ticket. I’d partied hearty last night, even though I felt fine now, thanks to my favorite twin demons caffeine and aspirin. It might be smarter to go home and make an early night of it.

What if I went home and my furnishings decided to attack? I had a lot of sharp objects in the kitchen.

On the other hand, if I went to the party, I could come back up here after a few drinks and sneak into Conrad’s office. I’d check out that contract with my signature. Since it couldn’t go through the shredder until it was dry, it was probably still on his desk. If I got caught, I’d just say I was looking for a client file. Who could fault my dedication, working late on my birthday? I was getting a good look at those papers if it was the last thing I did.

Yeah, sure, I said. We only get one Shannon-goes-back-to-school party a year, right?

Right, and you only get one twenty-fifth-birthday party, like, ever. She laughed and punched my arm. Gotta get back to my desk. Duty bellows. She reached the door, one hand on the knob. Kirsty, she said, nibbling one end of the cord on her hoodie. Why don’t you come back to school with me? I know we wouldn’t be in the same year or anything, but you could catch up. Do summer classes and finish undergrad faster. I’m sure Dad would hold your job for you till you got back.

I went all warm and fuzzy at the offer, but no way was I ever going back to school. I hated school. And I was doing so well without it, working my way up the food chain. Shannon may have arranged for me to get the initial job interview at her Dad’s PR firm, but it was my enthusiasm that had landed me the job and my hard work that had garnered me a promotion out of admin work and into client services. I grinned at Shannon and laid my heavily bandaged hand over my heart.

Thank you, that’s a lovely idea, but it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I see the inside of a classroom again. I think I’d rather die first.

Outside, thunder boomed and the fluorescents flickered.

Chapter 2

NOW IS THE WINTER OF OUR DISCOTHEQUE

"YOU GUYS SNAG us a table near the dance floor. I’ll be right back," I said before heading to the bathroom. I knew there would be camera phones in my future so I wanted to look my best. Shannon had said they might even use some of tonight’s shots in our company newsletter. And besides, all the way down in the elevator, Conrad kept staring at my hair. I hate that. My hair never behaves despite all the time, money and mousse I lavish on it. So I headed to the ladies’ room to do damage control on my frizzy locks.

Besides, you never know who you’ll meet. Mr. Right could be in the men’s room next door at this very moment. Too bad I was dressed for success for the office in a conservative business pantsuit. I longed for the comfort of way-too-tight skinny jeans and my favorite platform sandals. Plus that feat of lingerie engineering that would make my natural curves supernaturally curvy. When life had handed me lemons, I’d gone online and purchased grapefruits. Victoria’s Secret was safe with me.

I worked a comb through my hair, wincing when it hit a snarl. This month’s peach streaks looked awesome with the honey blond—but the constant dyeing made my hair so overprocessed, I tended to stay away from open flames. It was like it was dyed to death. Noticing a dark shadow along my hairline, I added call salon to my mental to-do list. I gave up trying to tame it, and donned my I meant to do that attitude.

I swiped on another layer of mascara and considered sticking in my nose ring, but this was still an office function so I left it in my purse. I was the consummate professional, although I don’t know why they called it that since I hadn’t consummated with anyone in a long time. Who needed a relationship when they had a fulfilling job like I did?

The bathroom’s only other occupant exited as I washed hairspray from my hands. The thud-thud-thud of distant music flooded the bathroom briefly, then quieted when the door drifted shut.

I jumped when I heard a man’s voice shouting, "I can’t go. I won’t!" from somewhere near the floor. Oh, no. I couldn’t take any more weirdness today.

My heart beat faster than the music outside as I took a cautious step back from the sink. Recalling my feral stapler, I crouched down, poised to dash away at the first sign of a rogue soap dispenser or aggressive toilet brush. The antibacterial squirt bottle looked suspicious, so I kept one eye on it. The other I focused under the sink.

I don’t have to go, the voice pleaded. I’ve found a loophole. Look at this!

There wasn’t a person hiding under the sink, just a vent, which, as far as I could tell, had not suddenly come to life. I was overhearing a conversation leaking from the men’s room. Well, there were certainly worse things that could be leaking from the men’s room.

Listen, friend. We can talk about this. I can make it worth your while.

I recognized Conrad’s voice in full negotiation mode, although I’d never heard him wheedle like this, all breathy and fearful.

That? That’s a coffee stain, but it was properly signed before the spill. Look, I just need more time. Is that so much to ask? We’re talking life and death!

There was a brief pause, like I was hearing only one side of a phone conversation. It struck me